Joren and the Quest for the Holy Scroll
by JWizB
Summary: The finer details of dallying with gods in dresses and why no one should ever let Jon wander off unattended. This story is now finished- hurrah!
1. The Message

Here is a list of what Jehane does not own:  
  
Tamora Pierce  
  
Kel  
  
Neal  
  
The God of Squirrels  
  
Tortall  
  
Yamani conditioner  
  
THE TOUPEE  
  
  
  
This is not a sequel to PIERCE MEETS PASSIONS. Or, rather, it IS a sequel, but it's also a prequel. Does that make sense to you? If it does, you are (a) Insane and (b) Missing the whole point of this story. Or lack thereof.  
  
Anyone attempting either to steal any material in this story or to find a moral, point, or single grain of sense in this story will be persecuted by THE TOUPEE, the God of Transvestites, and me.  
  
  
  
CHAPTER ONE: THE MESSAGE  
  
  
  
Joren of Stone Mountain was having an incredibly good day. Upon his approach, thirteen pages had fled in terror, and the two who had been stupid enough to stick around had been forced to wax the Great Hall's floor with their tongues, Lord Wyldon had admitted that he, Joren, was the greatest page in the history of great pages, and finally, FINALLY King Jonathan had changed the law allowing girls to train for knighthood! Keladry of Mindelan, that foul smith armed mousy-haired transvestite, would have to leave the Royal Court!  
  
Yep, hard to imagine a fellow's day going any better than thi-  
  
His thoughts were interrupted as a group of cocky first-years pushed past him, sending him toppling into the mud. Scowling, he got up, brushing off his tunic, and glared at the retreating pages. They took no notice. He stomped over to the nearest water barrel and washed the mud off of his face.  
  
All right, so the day had been a bust. None of the pages were afraid of him anymore; Lord Wyldon said he had a long way to go before he became a swordsman; and the rule for knighthood was unchanged. Catching sight of his reflection, he sighed dramatically and struck a pose. "It's all Keladry's fault," he told himself vehemently. "If it wasn't for her..." Sighing again, this time in defeat, he slumped down. "If only I could get RID of her!" His hand brushed against something hairy. Surprised, he looked down to see a brown furry something. Upon further examination it proved to be a toupee, rather scruffy and nondescript. He picked it up. Attached to the inside was a note that read, So you want to get rid of Keladry?  
  
"Oh, do I ever," he muttered. Then he started as he realized that the words on the note were changing.  
  
Are you sure? Because I can show you the way.  
  
"Yes, yes, I'm sure!" Joren cried. A few feet away, Faleron stared at him for a moment, then hurried past, looking vaguely disturbed.  
  
Here then. The note transformed, turning into a map drawn in faded black ink. Even the quality of the paper changed, to become suitably old and weathered. Words in a fluid and clear script were written near the bottom: This map, this map right here, this map in thy hand and no other, this map thou shalt follow to find the Holy Scroll, which shall tell thou how to use THE TOUPEE, which rests in thine right hand, for this map rests in thine left, and THE TOUPEE held within thine right hand shall give you great power with which thou canst defeat thine adversary, though only with proper usage of the Holy Scroll, which you may find by following the map, the map that rests in thine left hand, the map on which your destiny is written.  
  
In very small print at the bottom ran the words Drink Pepsi, Drink Pepsi, Drink Pepsi, Drink Pepsi...  
  
Joren squinted at the map. It seemed to lead north-east, up the River Olorun. It wasn't far, but the path he needed to take was not broken. He would have to ride through woods, brush, swamps... He grinned. Who cared! He would defeat Keladry of Mindelan, and prove forever that women were not meant to be knights. A shame that he couldn't finish off the King's Champion while he was at it, but you couldn't ask the gods- or THE TOUPEE, in this case- for everything.  
  
He hurried into the Palace, to gather up his travelling gear and weapons.  
  
And to fulfil his sudden craving for fizzy black liquid.  
  
  
  
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Nealan of Queenscove stared in puzzlement at the squirrel dancing across his desk. Had he ordered a squirrel? He didn't think so. It was a very nice squirrel, but not one he particularly wanted right then. He waved his hand, trying to use his Gift to banish it. When that didn't work, he frowned.  
  
"Go away, you pest of a rodent!" he commanded irritably. That was when he saw the silver claws. Apparently this was an immortal squirrel. "Are you the squirrel god?" he asked it. He hoped so- if the gods were using squirrels as vassals for their tasks, things were worse in the Divine Realms than any of the seers predicted. He was relieved when the animal nodded.  
  
"Squeakum squeak!" the squirrel god said. It repeated the phrase several times, and with a sigh Nealan got out his Squirrelish-to-Tortallan dictionary. After a few minutes of ponderous translating, he discovered the words to mean, roughly, "Oh no! Joren has gotten a mysterious map that will lead him to the knowledge he needs to defeat Keladry once and for all! This is a catastrophe! You must inform the King at once!" The squirrel god was hopping up and down on his desk now, squeaking out his message with such desperation that Nealan took pity on the Divine rodent.  
  
In his own way.  
  
"I never thought I'd see the day," he sighed, "when I'd listen to a neurotic furball like you. Still, divinity's divinity, and I'd rather not face the squirrel god's wrath." He picked up the squirrel god, who ran up his arm to sit on his shoulder. Grabbing his Squirrelish-to-Tortallan dictionary- if the hairball on his shoulder had anything else to say, he didn't intend to miss it- he strode out of his room to seek an audience with the King of Tortall.  
  
  
  
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King Jonathan IV of Tortall frowned, rubbing his beard intently. Anyone looking at him would think that he was pondering the squirrel god's statement. What he was actually thinking about was the new conditioner he'd been using on his facial hair. ::Now, was it worth twenty nobles a bottle?:: he thought, his frown deepening. ::I know it's Yamani conditioner, but still... I guess I'd best stick to it, for the alliance's sake at least, but am *I* getting anything? Is my beard still shiny and smooth? Is-::  
  
"Sire?" The monarch jumped and looked at the page standing in front of him. Nealan of Queenscove looked simultaneously irritated and resigned; the Divine squirrel on his shoulder was fairly dancing with impatience. Jonathan blinked.  
  
"Nealan, why do you have a squirrel sitting on your shoulder?"  
  
Neal shook his head. "That's what I've been explaining for the last- never mind." He turned and yelled, "Kel! C'mere!"  
  
Where the pages were practicing a few yards away, a young man put down his staff and came up to them. He bowed politely to Jonathan, his rather good- looking face impassive, then asked, "What is it, Neal?"  
  
His voice was a girl's! Jonathan gasped. "You're not a boy!" he exclaimed.  
  
The young lady muttered something under her breath that sounded very much like "Well spotted, baka." Raising her voice, she said to the King, "No, Highness, I'm not. I'm Keladry of Mindelan."  
  
"Keladry of-" Memory struck him. With a frown, he turned to tell it off. "It's not nice to hit people," he told it. "Particularly Kings of Tortall. Now apologize!" Memory just made a face and ran off. Jonathan watched it go without surprise. Memory was like that, always appearing and disappearing without so much as a by-your-leave.  
  
Kel and Neal, seeing the King talk to what appeared to be empty air, exchanged glances that said, Our monarch is insane. Figures, and the male page related to Kel the squirrel god's message. Jonathan listened as well, fascinated. The gods itself, finally hearing its message being told, settled down and began to eat Neal's tunic.  
  
"Mithros!" exclaimed Jonathan once Neal had finished. "This is terrible!" He turned to Kel, whose hands were twitching in a manner that suggested she'd like nothing better than to hurt the King in a painful and bloody manner. "Keladry, you must go after him! If not, he may completely destroy me- er, I mean you."  
  
"Why Kel?" demanded Neal, ignoring the squirrel god, who was still busy eating various parts of the page's clothing. "Why not send a hero-" Catching Kel's murderous glace, he shut up, biting his lip.  
  
Kel bowed to King Jonathan, her face a perfect mask. "As your Majesty wishes."  
  
"Good. Now-" Jonathan beckoned over a passing hostler. "Stefan will accompany you to catch the boy- what was his name again?"  
  
"Joren, your Majesty."  
  
Stefan looked startled. "Me? Yer Majesty, I-"  
  
Jonathan scowled. "Be QUIET, Stefan."  
  
The hostler bowed, sighing. "Aye, yer Ma-"  
  
"QUIET!"  
  
This time he only nodded. His face was resigned. Suddenly a stereotypically chubby, red-faced cook came hurrying up to the King. Curtseying to him, she gasped, "Majesty! Th' whole year's stock of Pepsi's gone! Clean vanished!"  
  
Jon cocked his head. "What's Pepsi?" The cook shrugged. "Black God damn me'f I know. I prob'ly shouldn't even be tellin' y'this."  
  
Kel's mouth went into a tight line. Her fists clenched, and her eyes glittered. "Joren," she whispered hotly. "Joren has done this. He took Pepsi- from the innocents who need it as an alternative to coffee." She turned to Stefan. "Prepare a horse for yourself," she instructed. "We must ride after Joren, and punish him for the evil he has done!" 


	2. The Arrival

Well, lookit this, a new chapter! Okay, things I don't own: Pepsi, all Pepsi trademarks, flying horses (I gave the pegasus in this feathery wings instead of Tamora Pierce's favoured bat wings because they're prettier with feathers- DON'T LAUGH! It makes sense because of the owner of the horse!), and Velvet Empire's Frontin' On Me. Which is good because if I owned that song I would most likely hunt down the band and insert said song into a part of their anatomy normally covered with cloth. D I made Kel sing it merely because I felt like being contrary. Now, then, on with this whole mess.  
  
  
  
CHAPTER TWO: THE ARRIVAL  
  
Joren took a long swig from the Pepsi bottle in his hand, only to discover it was empty. Scowling, he tossed it onto the road behind him. A trail of identical bottles stretched as far as the eye could see where he had rode.  
  
He studied the map in his hand, glanced at the Olorun, studied the map some more, glanced at the Olorun, studied the map, glanced at the Olorun, and then turned the map right side up. He scowled once more, tugging on his reins so that his horse would stop, then slipped from the saddle and sat down, gloomily opening a fresh bottle of Pepsi.  
  
Five days now he had been on the road. Five days and apparently he was no closer to his goal. (Most people wouldn't be frustrated by this, as it took a week to reach the place where he could reach his goal; however, Joren was an impatient sort.) His hand went to the pouch at his waist, touching the toupee within.  
  
"I could destroy Keladry," he muttered to himself. "I could do it today, if I could just travel fast enough! I wish-"  
  
His horse, grazing nearby, looked up as a shadow passed over her, then screamed and bolted downriver. Joren barely had time to think ::Curse it all to Bright Mithros!:: before the being that had cast the shadow landed before him.  
  
It was another horse, but a magnificent stallion. His coat was as soft as velvet, its colours subtly shading from deep rose to shadowy violet to misty silver, with a pair of wings like feathered rainbows sprouting from his shoulders. His bones were fine and delicate; his cloven gold hooves shone with a gentle light. He was absolutely beautiful.  
  
Joren hated him on sight.  
  
"Do you wish to travel, my son?" asked the stallion in a voice as soft and a summer's breeze, the words carrying to the page with the rose-like scent of the stallion's breath.  
  
"Of course," snarled Joren. "Why ELSE would I be on the road?"  
  
The stallion frowned. "There is no need to be rude, my son," he said sternly. "I will transport you to your destination, if you-"  
  
"You want me to ride on *you*?" Joren demanded. "I don't think so! What if someone saw me? My testosterone-driven illusions of sexist grandeur would be destroyed!"  
  
The stallion glared at him. "I was sent to help you," he snapped, his voice not at all soft now. "If you don't believe me, take a look at the map!"  
  
Joren glanced at the map again.  
  
Trust him, read the writing appearing at the top. He will help you.  
  
"Bah," muttered the page under his breath as he climbed onto the back of the stallion. "I HATE pink. It clashes with my tuni- I mean, it's unmanly. Yeah. That's what I meant. Unmanly. Feminine. Girly. All that stuff. Yeah."  
  
The stallion, naturally, was ignoring him completely and had already taken off.  
  
They remained in the air for almost an hour. Most people would be astonished that the horse could turn what was normally a two-day ride into an hour or so of travel, but as was mentioned before, Joren was an impatient sort.  
  
"Fast-errr," he whined, tugging on the stallion's mane. For good measure, he gave the winged beast a good kick. He (the horse, not Joren) reared in midair, the violent kick startling him into forgetting to flap his wings for a split second.  
  
It was enough. The stallion dropped like a stone, his wings going like a crazed hummingbird's, so that he just managed to skim the tops of the grassy fields beneath him. All the while, Joren screamed bloody murder.  
  
"Calm down, my son," said the stallion, sounding a little frazzled. "We are safe."  
  
"Safe?! Sa- oh." Joren looked around and stopped screaming.  
  
They came in time to a castle, its walls of crystal reflecting the sunset's rich colours and light so that it was almost too bright to look at. Behind it loomed a dark forest, its shadows barely touching the building before it. The stallion drifted down before it, trotting a short way up the pebbled causeway to the great gates. Upon seeing them, Joren hopped down from the stallion's back and lay a hand on the knocker. It was silver, shaped like a woman's face with a ring inserted in the mouth.  
  
::Beware, mortal,:: said a voice inside Joren's head. ::Knock only if you truly wish for what you seek, and know this- only those who are pure of heart may enter here.::  
  
"Really?" Joren asked it, awed in spite of himself.  
  
There was a very short pause, then, ::No,:: the voice replied. ::It sounds impressive, though, doesn't it? Well, don't just stand there, come on in.::  
  
And with that the doors opened, revealing long halls, columned in marble and floored in glass. Chandeliers, hard to see because of the height of the domed ceiling, hung overhead, reflecting the dim light. It was a hushed and majestic place, a place where you immediately wanted to whisper and tiptoe. And so Joren, being Joren, stomped.  
  
"Gently, my son," whispered the stallion behind him. "Our mistress does not wish to be disturbed."  
  
::Oh, it's alright once in a while,:: said the voice in Joren's head. ::As long as the disturber's cute. Turn left now, please, First door to your right, you can't miss it.::  
  
It was indeed hard to miss, the door in question being shaped like a kittycat. Joren dubiously opened it and found himself in a large, round room. The floor was covered in a deep pink rug, as thick and soft as forest moss. The golden cages overhead held exotic birds of song, and soft couches overflowed with tasselled cushions. The air was sweetly perfumed. It made Joren feel rather sick.  
  
"Beautiful, isn't it?" said the voice that had been in his head cheerfully. Joren whirled around to find himself facing a gorgeous stranger.  
  
  
  
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Jon gazed deep into the scrying crystal, his brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of what he saw in it. Was it Joren on the back of that winged horse, or some wayward princess? Personally, Jon had never been able to tell the difference. He shrugged- it probably didn't matter- and straightened, wincing as his neck audibly cracked. A glance around the room told him everything was in order. No lamps were lit- he found it easier to scry in the dark- the door was still locked, and the bag of marshmallows he had been eating was still sitting on his bed. He reached inside it and pulled one out, stuffing it in his mouth.  
  
"Keladry of Mindelan," he said to the crystal. But as the image on its surface began to swirl hazily...  
  
"Oh no!" Jon gasped as he caught sight of a small and shadowy figure swiping his bag of marshmallows. Was it Memory? He jumped out of his chair and sped after the chuckling marshmallow thief.  
  
The image in the scrying crystal was now of a tall, stocky girl, riding a gelding.  
  
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Kel wiped the sweat beading on her forehead and glanced behind her at Stefan. He was lagging, his head bent so that it nearly rested against his horse's mane. He was depressed, she could see, and she reined in Peachblossom, waiting for the hostler to catch up. He looked surprised.  
  
"Are ye wantin' somethin', m'lady?" he asked her.  
  
She shook her head. "No. I just thought you might be lonely, that's all, Stefan. You were riding back there all by yourself."  
  
He smiled a little. "'S nice of ye t'worry, m'lady." He was silent for a moment, chewing slowly on something that might have been his tongue.  
  
"So tell me a little about yourself," Kel urged, more to fill up the silence than because she was interested. "Were you born in Corus?"  
  
He shook his head. "Nah. I was raised in a wee village by the sea, in a tiny cottage with my mother and two sisters..."  
  
Kel tried to keep her mind on what the hostler was saying, but she kept getting distracted: by the bright flash of a hummingbird's wings, by the slow movement of the Olorun beside the road (which was littered with numerous Pepsi bottles), by a song going through her head. The song especially was persistent. Not fully realizing it, she began to hum it, then whisper it, the sing it at full force.  
  
"You've been thinkin' I get down," she proclaimed, interrupting Stefan's description of his cousin's late husband's uncle's niece's sister's pony,  
  
"But I never play around,  
  
Just hangin' with the fellas when I'm chillin' downtown,  
  
Girl I just want you to see.  
  
No breakin', fakin', no mistakin',  
  
I just want some honesty from you boooooooooy,  
  
Stop frontin' on me, you're buggin' me.  
  
You better wake up, make up, get ready for a shake up,  
  
I just want some honesty from you boooooooooy,  
  
Cause you're frontin' on me, stop-"  
  
Kel stopped singing, looking around confusedly. When her gaze fell on Stefan, she winced. "I'm sorry, Stefan," she said balefully. "I didn't mean to do that."  
  
"'S what they all say," Stefan said ruefully. "Well, at least ye didn't scream at me t'shut up."  
  
"Of course no-"  
  
A sound, or maybe a lack of sound, made Kel's head turn as she looked for its source. Something was not right. (WHY was she thinking about twelve little girls in two straight lines?) The road was too quiet, too calm; it was like the centre of a cyclone.  
  
Kel turned to Stefan, who was plaiting his horse's mane and tying the plaits with neon pink and orange ribbons. "I think we should-" she began, but was interrupted on account of a soft pink monster with claws the colour of lilacs and a musk that resembled blueberries erupted up from the road before them, snatched the humans and their horses, and dragged them down into the bowels of the Earth. 


	3. The Challenge

**A/N: Gods, this took me a while to spit out... how long has it been, three months? Eh, I wrote this segment a while ago, but I kept on procrastinating. ^_^;  
  
A couple of thigs: One, I have been told that my pointless humour sounds muchly like Monty Python. Personally I can't see much resemblance, but for your amusement I inserted a Monty Python ref. in this segment. So, yay for me, I s'pose. Only, be warned: if you're not a true connoisseur of MONTY PYTHON'S FLYING CIRCUS, you prob'ly won't get it.  
  
Two: About the whole transie/sexuality issue... I don't want people thinking that I'm homophobic or prejudiced, hence this extensive A/N. I'm not trying to be judgemental, mmkay? I'm trying to make people laugh. Yes, Auron's character may be stereotypical, but it's meant to be HUMOROUS. The whole "god of transvestites" thing is meant to be HUMOROUS. Joren's constant self-affirmation of his masculinity is meant to be HUMOROUS. Everything in this story is meant to be funny, not homophobic or sexist- besides, it's hard to be homophobic when you don't exactly swing straight yourself. Maybe sometime I'll write a serious fic on matters of gender stereotypes and sexuality, but for now I'm just having fun, so don't flame me unless you find yourself haemorrhaging with the need to post a hateful review.  
  
Eh, I can be so long-winded. Anyway, read on!**  
  
  
  
Chapter Three: The Challenge  
  
  
  
The woman standing in the doorway was the most beautiful female Joren had ever seen- more beautiful that Queen Thayet, and not a beaky-nosed cross-dresser. (The irony of that thought isn't very subtle, as you will see.) The slits in the skirt of her rose-coloured gown showed long, shapely legs; her huge eyes were the colour of liquid amber, set in a smooth, full-lipped face framed by silky strands of golden hair; the dress' plunging neckline showed a small patch of chest hair-  
  
Wait a minute,  
  
CHEST HAIR?  
  
Joren's eyes travelled down a little to see that the "woman" was missing two choice bits of anatomy. He gasped and backed up, tripped over a misplaced violet pouffe and stumbled to a stop.  
  
The transvestite sighed and shook his head. "Why do my champions always do that when they first meet me?" he asked the stallion, who stood by his side.  
  
The stallion shrugged. "Frankly, I've no idea, mistress. Are you going to be insulted and torture him without mercy?"  
  
The transvestite beamed. "No. He's too darn cute."  
  
Joren would have gasped in indignation, but he was preoccupied with his own thoughts.  
  
::Oh, Bright Mithros. She's a he... And I was- I- But I didn't know! That makes it alright, right? I mean, he's so attracti- AAH! Not attractive! Not attractive! Must retain heterosexuality... must not become unmanly... I am filled with testosterone. No femininity in me, nope, not even if he's so good-loo- ARGH!!! HE IS NOT GOOD-LOOKING!!!::  
  
And underneath it all, one word echoed loudly through his mind: Eep.  
  
::Alright,:: he thought after a moment, trying to remember to breathe. ::It's okay. Just be... uh... angry. Yeah. Be angry, and you will get out of this with your manhood intact...:: Swallowing hard, he straightened and tried to look outraged. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded,. He made the mistake of looking at the transvestite's face when he said it, and his voice sounded shrill. He immediately transferred his gaze to the ornate gilt doorframe.  
  
The transvestite smiled. "Hello, Joren. Sorry if I startled you, but you see, I have a weakness for surprising entrances." He held out a soft, well-manicured hand. (There were little daisies painted on his thumbnail, Joren noticed.) "I'm Auron, god of cross-dressers."  
  
"I didn't ask your name!" Joren snapped at the doorframe. "I asked what is the meaning of this!"  
  
Auron paused. "A definition, hmm?" He considered for a moment, then snapped his fingers. A heavy, leather-bound book appeared, hovering in the air before him. He opened it, sneezing a little as dust rose from the yellowed pages rose up in a cloud around him. "This is a Summons," he explained, flipping through the book until he neared the end. Squinting at the faded writing scrawling across the paper, he read, "'Summons, n; a time at which the god of transvestites uses the Holy Scroll to summon a champion. Said god retains the right to withhold the purpose of said Summons, but may disclose said information under certain circumstances. Noun interchangeable with Command, Call, and Snitching-Mortals-Away-For- Evil-Purposes.'"  
  
Behind him, the stallion was murmuring something that sounded very much like "Drink Pepsi, drink Pepsi, drink Pepsi..."  
  
Auron closed the book with a snap. "'The Literal Work of Grammatical Dictational Literature of and by the Gods/Goddesses of Cross-Dressing Reversal Roles, and Fizzy Liquids'," he said, pointing to the book's cover. "It dates all the way back to when Anahar was just a teensy little blob of metaphysical energy." He shuddered. "Anahar's the goddess of dominatri- she's very scary."  
  
"But why Summon ME?" Joren demanded of the doorframe. "And why did you tell me to use the Holy Scroll to destroy Keladry?" He allowed himself a smirk. "I mean, it'd be a pleasure, but why would care about her?"  
  
He had half-expected the god to get angry at his presumption and strike him with lightning or something, but Auron just smiled a little wistfully. Joren's heart caught in his throat at the expression. "Oh, it's a long story, Jori- can I call you Jori?" At Joren's spluttered denial, he nodded, "Good. It's a long story, like I said- maybe the Holy Scroll can explain it better than I." He snapped his fingers again, and the pouch at Joren's waist suddenly felt lighter. The Scroll appeared in Auron's hand. He smoothed it out and knelt, placing it on the floor. Joren bent over it to see it better, then, remembering that he was in the same room as a transvestite who might take that as an invitation (::He's NOT attractive! I'm a MAN!::), knelt as well as words began to appear, flowing in an overly fancy script down the Scroll.  
  
  
  
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In the Beginning, it began, before time was time, before there was the Earth, before Mother Flame and Father Universe ever dreamed of fruit bats- in the beginning, there were cross-dressers.  
  
There was Avaron and Anahar, there was Aariel and Abiran, there was Auriet and Auron, and all the other gods of cross-dressing, reversal roles, and fizzy liquids (drinks Pepsi) whose names begin with A, or sometimes X or CHZ. And they went forth into the world with their whips and drag and garlands of hot-pink flowers, and all was good.  
  
And then IT came into the world.  
  
"It?" muttered Joren questioningly.  
  
Auron touched a finger to his lips. "Shh," he whispered, digging a handful of salted popcorn from a striped bag.  
  
The god of squirrels was an evil thing, demonic in a cute and fuzzy sort of way, but the Great Mother Goddess was enraptured with it, and cuddled it and petted it and allowed it to spread its evil spawn throughout the world. The gods of cross-dressers were pushed to the side, and the god of squirrels rose higher and higher in the eyes of the Great Gods.  
  
This distressed the gods of cross-dressing, and they conspired amongst themselves, plotting how to reseat themselves in favour. Finally, the god Auron-  
  
Auron beamed.  
  
- decided to confront the heinous rodent. He challenged the squirrel god, before the Great Mother Goddess and Mithros Themselves, to a duel to the death. But, when Auron cheated by way of the illegal uses of a fruit bat-  
  
"I couldn't HELP it," complained Auron. "It was just LYING there!"  
  
-he was exiled to the mortal realms, until the day that he challenged the squirrel god again, and won.  
  
Auron rolled the Scroll up and put it in the pocket of his dress. "There you have it," he said. "You probably know that it's unlawful for the gods to directly use their powers to get their own way in the mortal realms, and, as I'm stuck here, all I can do is get a champion to fight for me, and courtesy dictates that the squirrel god does the same." He grinned wickedly. "However, there's no rule that says I can't... IMPROVE that champion a bit. That's where THE TOUPEE comes in."  
  
Joren scowled at the idea of being improved and stood, wiping scant bits of dust from his breeches. "But how do you know the squirrel god will choose Keladry?" he asked Auron, his voice going shrill again. ::Doorframe! Look at the doorframe!::  
  
The god shrugged. "It's a system we gods've worked out- we make our champions mortal enemies as often as possible. It's more fun for everyone involved, then. And, if the he doesn't..." He shrugged again. His amber eyes suddenly looked distant and hard. "If you win this battle for me, mortal, against whichever champion the evil rodent chooses, I will grant you power beyond your wildest dreams. Money, magic, mastery- may it never be said that the gods do not reward those who follow them."  
  
The page gulped and fidgeted as Auron fixed him with his gaze. It was unnerving being stared down by a pretty man in a dress at any time, he thought, but it was somehow twice as strange when that man's eyes were an icy amber and he seemed to faintly glow. "Uh-huh. And... not suggesting it'll happen or anything, but... what if I lose?"  
  
Auron blinked, and the godly look faded as he gave another wicked grin. "According to the rules, I get to keep you here with me in my fortress, and do as I wish with you." He grinned still more widely. "Lucky me."  
  
Joren swallowed hard. ::Man. Man in a dress.::  
  
"So, how do I use this TOUPEE?" he asked, taking the object from his pouch.  
  
  
  
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The marshmallow thief was well ahead of Jon when he stopped to catch his breath. Once he'd done that- and scolded it for running away- he looked around. He was in a part of the Palace that he'd never seen before, a long, sunlit hall lined with dusty shelves which were filled with ragged scrolls. Was it a part of the catacombs? Seeing a woman dressed in grey working at a desk in the corner between two shelves, he smiled in relief.  
  
"Excuse me," he said loudly, trying to fill the rather oppressive- not to mention dusty- silence. "Where exactly am I?"  
  
The woman didn't bother looking up from the model she was building- some construction of tiny bricked made of a coloured material which he couldn't quite name. It seemed to be a miniature Corus, with yellow-headed people roaming the multihued streets. "Files and Records, main hall," she muttered, carefully placing a little yellow man atop of what looked like Balor's Needle. In a squeaky voice she said, "Help! Help! I'm being pushed off the Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-" She flicked the little man off of the mini-Needle, making a disturbingly realistic SPLATing noise when it hit the desk.  
  
Jon stared at it for a moment, feeling a bit queasy, then shrugged. "Just curious, have you seen a Memory with a bag of marshmallows pass this way recently? Because-"  
  
The woman held a finger to her lips. "Shh!" she whsipered. "Mari's grieving!" She picked up a female yellow figure and stood it by the downed male one, beginning to sob in a pathetic and absurdly high voice. "Oh, Jared! You've died! And now I must keeeeeeeeeeeel myself!"  
  
The little woman was moved to the top of Balor's Needle, and then made to jump off of it.  
  
"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-" The woman choked off the feigned death squeal mid-vowel, her head snapping back with an audible snap that made Jon wince in sympathy. When it regained its original position, her eyes were glowing with a misty purple-red light. Her voice was guttural and harsh.  
  
"Drink Pepsi, drink Pepsi, drink Pepsi, drink Pepsi, drink Pepsi, drink-" All at once she slumped forwards, eyes closing, onto the model of Corus. Her face twitched once, and she muttered in what appeared to be sleep as pieces of the Riders' Barracks fell around Jon's feet.  
  
He stared at the woman in perplexity for a moment, then shrugged- what did librarians who build little models matter next to a renegade Memory with a bag of marshmallows?- and turned, trying to find his way out of the Files and Records hall. His exit was hampered, however, by the rapid- and rabid- approach of a black-haired young lady in odd blue canvas pants, with a wolf's bushy tail and the gleam of a fanatic in her blue eyes.  
  
"JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!" she screamed. The effect was marred a bit by the bout of coughing somewhere between the fifth and seventh O's, but she still came off as a dangerous fangirl, perhaps because of the excessive drooling.  
  
Jon, though was not easy to impress. (Or so he thought, as he stared for a moment in fascination at a blue brick of inexplicable material lying at his feet and considered having it made a Royal Treasure.) He had dealt with fangirls before- it was one of his skills.  
  
"Go away," he said, flapping a hand at her. "I'm trying to find a bag of marshmallows and ponder the existence of these bricks of inexplicable substance. And besides, my name sounds terrible when you say it like that."  
  
The fangirl halted in her tracks, her eyes beginning to gleam wetly. "B-but it's my ONLY LINE!" she said tearfully.  
  
  
  
***********************************************************************  
  
  
  
Kel's eyelids fluttered, then lifted. She bolted upright, grabbing for her glaive without bothering to wonder why it still rested at her side. Sand surrounded her, not the rough dark sand of Tortallan beaches, but soft white sand, the kind that crept into areas of your clothing and anatomy that you had formerly thought unreachable. Low walls encircled the sand's edge, ringed with steeply-rising seats. It was an amphitheatre. As she got to her feet, a white spotlight momentarily blinded her. She blinked and saw spots beneath her eyelids.  
  
"Keladry of Mindelan!" a voice boomed. Kel knew it all too well. She grimaced and turned. As she'd thought, it was Joren of Stone Mountain, as beautiful and cold as ever, standing against the low wall. Even from where she stood she could see his smug expression.  
  
But why was he wearing a wig?  
  
Joren turned to Auron who stood behind the wall in the stands, bowing and keeping his eyes on the amphitheatre sand. "I am ready to fight."  
  
Auron clapped his hands. "Splendid!" he exclaimed. "You remember how to use THE TOUPEE?" Joren nodded. "Good. Issue the challenge. And Jori," he added as the boy turned away, "remember the stakes!"  
  
Joren forced himself to shudder- ::Male. Unattractive. Neutral.::- and faced Keladry. The page stood there, her Yamani pigsticker in her hands, her cursed face as smooth as porcelain. "I challenge you to a duel, Mindelan," he said harshly. "For the honour of the gods and of men- to the death."  
  
Keladry bowed. "And I accept, Stone Mountain," she whispered, shifting her weight form foot to foot, "for the honour of those you have cheated out of Pepsi and a coffee alternative!"  
  
Joren drew his sword, wincing as THE TOUPEE hummed loudly on his head.  
  
The clash as both blades met was the only sound in the amphitheatre.  
  
  
  
***********************************************************************  
  
  
  
In Corus, the squirrel god was in the middle of eating Neal's second- best tunic when he stiffened, as though hearing a sound that none other could hear. He squeaked once, twice, three times, and with a thunderbolt- accompanied by the smell of overripe grapefruit- the god disappeared.  
  
*** 


	4. The Sentence

**A/N: Here 'tis- the long-awaited (although without much anticipation) fourth chapter of THE HOLY SCROLL! *Cue theme music of the dun-dun-da-dun kind.*  
  
There is another witty and overtly obvious Monty Python reference hidden away in this chapter- the first to catch it will get a cookie. I also have slash references. (How could I NOT, with Auron in it?) They are not graphic, but very unsubtle. If you don't like slash much, I suggest you maybe skip those bits. If you don't like badly written accents, you may as well go read something else entirely. Sorry.  
  
And remember, I don't own Tortall any more than in the first chapter. However, due to a certain previously written contract which I have conveniently forgotten up 'til now, I DO in fact own Yamani conditioner and all who use it, write about it, make references to it, think about it, or look at pictures that feature it must pay a fine to yours truly.**  
  
  
The Sentence  
Raw energy coursed through Joren's veins. He chuckled in delight, then yelped as Keladry's glaive swung too close for comfort. His arms reacted with unnatural speed, striking back, then, when he missed, thrusting and nicking her cheek. She hissed, and at the sight of first blood Joren yelled in triumph. THE TOUPEE hummed again, accompanying a fresh surge of adrenaline that made his very blood sing.  
  
"Come on, Jori- ACK!" Auron's yelp somehow carried above the noise of Joren's sword meeting Keladry's blade again. He managed to get a glimpse of the god struggling with something brown and fuzzy before her glaive nearly snicked off a lock of his hair. He struck, caught the glaive on its staff with his sword blade, and bore down, forcing her to her knees. Under the pressure, the glaive's head snapped off. She fell back, clutching the jagged-ended staff that her pigsticker had become.   
  
The edge of his sword pressed lightly against her throat. He held it there, grinning. An odd white light obscured his vision.   
  
"So, Mindelan," he said, trying to make his tone casual and nonchalant, as though he had expected nothing other than this, "what're you going to do now?"  
  
She smiled politely at him once.  
  
Then, as an answer, she rammed the sharp end of her staff through his stomach.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
The world around Jon shivered. The Files and Records Hall suddenly faded, to be replaced by a grey-skied valley. Mountains towered grimly around him, covered in stubbly grass and heather.  
  
And, oddly enough, scorch marks.  
  
Jon stared around in wonder. What had happened? Who or what had brought him here? Where were his marshmallows? That last was foremost in his mind, and so he set off in no particular direction, searching for his Memory.  
  
::Stupid marshmallow thief,:: he thought grumpily. His breath came short as he climbed up one of the gentler hills. Keeping a careful eye out for more fangirls that might be lurking about, he topped a rise and saw the whole of the rather uninteresting, vaguely Scottish valley spread below him.   
  
An explosion to his left made him start and turn. A flaming staff was pointed at him, wielded by a thin old man whose dark beard was so liberally streaked with grey that one could reverse the order of the two colours in a sentence and it would still be the truth. He stared ominously at the King for a moment, then turned abruptly and pointed his staff at a mountaintop. It spontaneously combusted.  
  
Jon blinked. "Um... hello? I'm looking for a memory, and maybe a bag of marshmallows."  
  
The bearded man turned back to him, black eyes narrowed. "Yes. I know of what you speak," he replied softly.  
  
Most people would know from the tone to stop speaking and back away, preferably for a great distance. Most people weren't Jon.  
  
He tried his most charming smile. "That's great- it'll save me explanations." He remembered the blank stare that most people gave him when he tried to explain things and sighed dramatically- sometimes it just wasn't worth being an almighty monarch, for they tended to be wise in such an inexplicable way that no one understood them. "I'm Jon, by the way," he added, offering his hand. "Who are you?"  
  
The old man stared eerily at him, then said slowly, "I... am an enchanter. By name I am known as... Tim."  
  
The world froze.  
  
"Oh, come ON!" an irritated female voice said. "Jared, I don't expect much of you- you're YOU, after all- but even YOU should know the difference between the Divine Realms and the Monty Python continuum!"  
  
"Well, I've only been in this line of work for a few millennia!" a male voice replied indignantly. "Don't blame ME for the similarities of the planes of human thought! DEMONIC planes, now, there's distinction-"  
  
"We haven't been assigned to demonic planes since Uusoae's millionth birthday, you idiot! If you keep on hoping for a transfer and making stupid mistakes like this we'll BOTH get demoted, maybe even back to monitoring Nirvana. And why did you choose such STUPID bodies for us?"   
  
What she meant became evident when Jon located the two speakers. They were yellow figures, one vaguely male and the other vaguely female, walking stiffly with kneeless legs made of the same unidentifiable material as the tiny bricks in the Files and Records Hall. The male one seemed to feel sheepish, although real facial expressions weren't in evidence.  
  
"I- I thought they'd be fun," he muttered. "I saw those things in the Files and Records Hall and I thought... Marcy, you don't really think we'll be demoted as low as Nirvana, do you?"  
  
The female figure did something that could only be described as shuddering. "Gods, I hope not. All those trippy spirits floating around everywhere, burbling about how HAPPY they are... it makes me sick." She pulled something from her pocket. Something about the act made Jon's head spin- not an infrequent happening- and when he rubbed his eyes free of little black spots, she held a door. Placing it firmly on the rocky ground, she looked at Jon. "Through here, please," she said, pulling it open to reveal what looked like a palace of some kind.   
  
Jon hesitated, then said, "Sorry, but I can't go in there. You see, I'm looking for-"  
  
A small foot of a substance unknown to him connected violently with his posterior, sending him flying over the threshold.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Stefan was more or less lost.  
  
He wasn't sure if "lost" was exactly the right word. Generally people who got lost were trying to go somewhere, but he was not- or, at least, not anywhere in particular. However, he had no idea where he was, so "lost" was the only word he could use at that point. Whatever the proper word was, he was it, and it was beginning to annoy him.  
  
There were worst places to be more or less lost in, he suppose. His present location was actually rather pleasant- dim, cool, and smelling vaguely like horses (although he couldn't see any of them). In fact, he'd probably feel at home here if it wasn't for the fact that he'd woken with his face pressed into a barrel of hay, alone in what had seemed to be a stall. That troubled him. He wondered what had happened to the horses, and Page Keladry. He wondered where the wavering, orange light was coming from. He wondered why he was suddenly thirsty.  
  
"Water?" he muttered with a bemused frown, trying to put a name to the liquid he was envisioning. "No, that can't be right. Water isn't black or... or buzzy like. Is it a kind've cider, then?"  
  
"Oh, no," came a worried murmur. "He's one of THOSE."  
  
"One of what?"  
  
"Well, in the Realms we call them nuisances, but I think their official name is 'temporal anomalies'. Or something like that. They're more sensitive to energetic distortions than the average mortal; luckily nobody ever seems to listen to them. He's picking up on a certain ley line- one of the bothersome ones."  
  
"That one that the God of Fizzy Liquids left behind the last time he visited the mortal realms?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"I thought Andrew erased that one."  
  
"Proved to be too stubborn, I guess. That, or Andrew was too lazy to bother."  
  
The speakers were hard for Stefan to make out, but even in the dim light there was something wrong with them- they were too small to be human, and all angles, with faces that looked yellow and frozen into perfect U-shaped smiles. He knelt to squint at them, nearly overbalancing.  
  
"Hello, there!" said the female-ish one brightly. "You seem to be lost. Might I aid you by pointing out the blindingly obvious flashing signs that are on the walls giving directions out of this rather dank and very dim catacomb-esque place?"   
  
Stefan glanced up at the wall, seemingly empty of any sort of sign, then wordlessly back at the two figures.  
  
The female-ish one groaned, maintaining the same whacked-with-a-hammer grin. "Jared. You forgot the signs."  
  
The other, male-ish person sounded both defiant and embarrassed as he replied, "Oh, sure, blame me. Do you expect me to do EVERYTHING?"  
  
"Not really, but I DO expect you to do SOMETHING." When he didn't reply, the female-ish one sighed and took Stefan's head between two strange yellow hands, turning it until he was looking at the wall to his right. He found himself faced with garish yellow lettering, the words TWO LEFT TURNS, UP THE STAIRS, AND THROUGH THE LARGE FRONT DOOR- AND MIND THE CARPETS! flashing at him.  
  
The female-ish person released his head. "There you are, then," she said, nudging him with a blocky foot. "Just do what the sign says, and remember, the wall ornaments are not for touching."  
  
Stefan straightened, blinking in the sickly light of the sign. "Uh... thanks," he said, staring at the two people for a moment. It was strange to talk to someone who didn't plug their ears and starts to hum- or worse yet, hit you- as soon as you opened your mouth. Unnatural, even.  
  
The two didn't look up at him- he assumed they couldn't; their necks seemed very stiff- or say anything in return. Perhaps it was their way of plugging their ears and humming. A bit miffed at that thought, he started off in the direction indicated by the hideous sign, vanishing quickly out of sight in the dim. The female-ish one waited until he was out of sight to address her companion.  
  
"I'm never letting you choose our bodies again, Jared."  
  
"Oh, bite me."  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Joren didn't feel pain. That would have surprised him, what with the pole emerging from his innards, but it was suddenly cold and dark and he couldn't feel anything.   
  
"Oh, no..." Feeling rushed back into him as someone's foot made violent contact with his ribs, he groaned, then realized with a start that there wasn't a pole in his stomach. His eyes opened, and he saw Mindelan glaring at him. He sneered, but one hand went to his abdomen, feeling around for the jagged hole that had been there the last time he'd checked. It wasn't in evidence. Getting to his feet, he realized suddenly why she had said, 'oh, no'. Marbles columns rose around them, beneath a split sky with scattered stars on one half and clear blue on the other. They were in some kind of courtyard, not one he'd seen before, and definitely not part of Auron's palace- it stretched on as far in any direction as what he could see of the sky, and seemed just as empty.  
  
"Where in Mithros' name am I?" he demanded, turning to face her. "Where've you dragged me to, Mindelan?"  
  
She kept on glaring, her cold eyes fixed upon him. "I was going to ask you that one."  
  
Joren muttered a curse and turned away, putting one hand to his head for THE TOUPEE. He realized too late that it wasn't there.  
  
"Not there, eh?" a voice cackled from behind him. He turned again, then looked down. A toothless old man, barely half his height, grinned up at him, his tiny body swimming in an overlarge black coat. "T'be expected. Ye'll find they don't let ye keep such toys here."  
  
"Who are they, if I might ask?" Keladry asked politely. The little man turned to her, his already wrinkled face creasing still more with mirth.   
  
"Ye'll see. Soon, if my guess is right." He reached into a huge pocket and pulled out a clear bottle filled with some kind of black liquid. Guzzling the contents within seconds, he pulled out another, twisted off the cap and offered it to her. "Pepsi fer ye, lass?"  
  
She raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"  
  
Joren's eyes grew wide as he caught the scent. His hands moved of their own volition, but the old man, grinning wickedly, held the bottle out of his reach.  
  
"Now, don't be foolish, lad. Ye don't want t'rot yer pretty teeth, do ye?"  
  
Enraged, Joren swung at him, only to find that his hand stopped before contact.   
  
"Enough!" a voice boomed through the courtyard. "Honestly, Rags, do we need to hire you a keeper?"  
  
The speaker strode through the columns, seemingly out of nowhere. It was a man, tall and powerful, with skin the colour of chocolate. He glared at the three of them.  
  
The old man- 'Rags', evidently- grinned impudently. "Prob'ly, milord," he replied, bowing. "Personally I wonder why ye haven't yet. Sometimes ye make me think I'm not trying hard enough."  
  
"No, no, you're trying quite hard enough," said the newcomer hastily. "It's just... don't you have something better to do?"  
  
Rags snickered. "Now, m'lord, what was that? Where's the fire and brimstone? Where's the passionate declarations of divine rage?"  
  
"I have spent the last hour or so arguing with my wife," returned the newcomer. "I'm 'fire and brimestone'-d out. Now would you cooperate for ONCE?"  
  
The old man tipped his battered hat. "Wouldn't e'en think'f disobeyin', m'lord Mithros. Nope, not me. After all, I'm yer humble servant in all things, en't I?" With another toothless leer he pulled his ragged coat closer to him, shuffling away through the columns without glancing back even once. After a moment, he shimmered and vanished.  
  
It was only then that Mithros turned back to the other two mortals, sighing in relief. "He lied, you know," he said, almost conversationally. "He's not privy to me, nor to anyone but Father Universe and Mother Flame Themselves- and even They need to resort to bribes now and then. Rags isn't his real name, either- he's never told us that. Says if any but his mediums know it he'll vanish." The god snorted in apparent contempt and looked at the humans as if expecting a response. If that was the case, he was sorely disappointed- Keladry looked blank, which might have been her way of dealing with shock, and Joren... well, even if he hadn't been speechless with terror, he couldn't move his jaw, lips, or tongue. The Sun Lord waited a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully.  
  
"I suppose I've got to clear this up..." he muttered, then snapped his fingers. Raising his voice, he called sharply, "Marcy! Jared! Hurry up and grab Auron, then portal back here!"  
  
The air wavered, and particles moved. Laws of impossibility bent the laws of magic, and Joren's head turned. After a moment, finding he could look back, Auron stood there, looking more than a bit mussed. A silver-clawed squirrel stood a few feet away, chattering furiously. Two strange figures, barely a foot high and yellow-faced, bowed stiffly to Mithros.   
  
"We got him, my lord," said the vaguely male-ish one. He sounded a little out of breath. "Awaiting trial, as you asked. Didn't even have to cut anything off for cooperation."  
  
"Idiot," muttered the other, vaguely female-ish one. "He's a GOD- it wouldn't have done much good." She cleared her throat and turned to Mithros, speaking louder. "My lord, I have a request."  
  
Mithros raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"  
  
"Find me a partner who isn't a complete dunderhead." She gave her companion what was probably meant to be a withering glare.  
  
"I'll look into it, Marcy, but as to the matter at hand..."  
  
Marcy subsided, muttering what sounded like "Forgot the SIGNS..." and "Couldn't even give us decent BODIES..."  
  
The Sun Lord turned to Auron. "Lord Auron, you stand accused," he said sternly. His armour suddenly started to gleam, and Joren wondered if that was what the priests meant when they spoke of 'the light of justice'. "Without an open challenge you defied a god, one of your kin, and used mortals as tools for your own means- and what is worse, gave them a weapon of divine power!" THE TOUPEE appeared in his open hand, and he looked at it with distaste. "Albeit one in a rather unconventional form. What is your excuse?"  
  
Auron sighed patiently. "No need to accuse me, sweetie," he said. "I followed the rules set- I chose my champion, I trained him, he fought his adversary. Those were the rules. And now I demand my rights to be upheld. I demand to reenter the Divine Realms." For a moment his eyes blazed again like amber fire, and he seemed to grow taller, his skin shining. Then, cocking his head to the side, he added, "Wait... he lost, didn't he?"  
  
Mithros nodded gravely.  
  
"Oops. My bad." The fire faded from his eyes, and he became again no more than a pretty man in a dress.  
  
The squirrel stopped chattering for a moment and glared at the Sun Lord. "Squeaken squeak squark!" he demanded.  
  
Mithros blinked. "Did you just say 'squark'?" he asked the squirrel. He nodded furiously.   
  
"I thought that was parrotish," the male-ish figure murmured.  
  
"Squeak squeakum squee," the squirrel opined.  
  
"Are you certain? He DID try to kill you."  
  
"Squeaken squeak."   
  
"Uusoae was a completely different matter, and you know it."  
  
"Squee squikkit squeaken!"  
  
"What do you mean, my hair needs cutting?"  
  
"Squeakum."  
  
"I'd thank you not to talk about my deprived childhood, you insolent rodent!"  
  
The squirrel god looked outraged. "SQUEAK-"  
  
"Pardon me, my lords?"  
  
It was Keladry. Joren would have sneered, as he always did, at the sound of her voice, but he was still stuck. He tried to content himself with sneering mentally as she approached the trio of immortals, only to find that it was well-nigh impossible to sneer mentally.   
  
"You have something to say, mortal?" Mithros demanded imperiously.  
  
She bowed deeply. "Forgive the intrusion, but might I ask what the good.. er... squirrel proposes?"  
  
The Sun Lord scowled. "Life imprisonment in the mortal realms for this law-breaker and his pawn. It was his sentence anyway, chosen for him centuries ago- now that he has broken the rules, he deserves worse. He deserves death." At the word death, his voice deepened to a thunderous growl.  
  
"I see." After a moment's hesitation, she asked, "I may not remember entirely right, lord Mithros, but didn't Mother Flame and Father Universe forbid their children to kill one another?"  
  
Mithros' face went blank for a moment, then sagged. His shoulders followed suit. "You're right."  
  
"Squeak," commented the squirrel, rather smugly.  
  
"There's no need to be so self-satisfied," the god snapped, then turned once more to Keladry. "You knew that he" - his hand waved in Auron's general direction- "is a god? How?"  
  
Keladry's eyes flickered from the gleaming Sun Lord to the unusually good-looking Auron, then to the squirrel and the two half-forgotten yellow-faced figures. Her gaze took in the split sky, the stance Joren was frozen in, the direction in which Rags had vanished, and her mouth twitched. "Let's just say I guessed," she said composedly.  
  
Mithros sighed and muttered something under his breath, then drew himself up. His eyes flashed with something that might have been lightning as he pronounced, "hear me, Auron, sister-"  
  
"- brother-"  
  
"Brother, then, of Aariel, you are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment in the mortal realms. No mortals shall ever come upon your palace again, nor shall you leave its grounds. So speaks Lord Mithros." Lightning flickered in the harlequin sky.  
  
Auron raised his hand.  
  
Mithros glared at him, and lightning flashed twice more. "WHAT, Auron?"  
  
"The rules say I get to keep him." Auron pointed to Joren.  
  
"A little late to be thinking about rules, don't you think?"  
  
"A little late for you to stop thinking about them, sweetie," Auron returned.  
  
Mithros growled in anger, and somewhere in the mortal realms a petty fur merchant had a heart attack. "FINE." Clearing his throat, he amended, "No mortals shall ever enter your palace save this one, who due to a previous contract is yours to dispose of as you please."   
  
As Auron opened his mouth, Mithros added hastily, "We don't want to know what you do with him, trust me."  
  
Auron grinned and picked Joren up. Suddenly finding that he was able to move, he screamed, struggling.  
  
"Tsk, tsk," Auron murmured, setting him down and staring at him thoughtfully. "I guess we'll have to do this the... hard... way." He snickered. "Innuendo. Fun."  
  
Mithros looked as though he was fighting off a nosebleed. "I-indeed," he managed. He waved his hand, and the courtyard shifted and changed to a garden, filled with sunlight and the smell of roses. Keladry sniffed appreciatively.   
  
"Here in your palace, Auron, shall you and your mortal remain until the ends of the Earth meet in fire," intoned the Sun Lord.  
  
"We get it, Mithie," Auron said in exasperation. He looked at Joren. "Hmm. Let's try that screaming/struggling thing again, but in a different spirit." Joren backed away, his eyes huge.  
  
Mithros tried to speak once more, but words seemed to fail him. He held out a hand to the squirrel god, who hopped on with one last squeak to Keladry.   
  
"He says to say goodbye to Nealan for him," Mithros told her. "And to tell him that the velvet beats the cotton hollow." He looked at the two figures. "Marcy, Jared, take her out of here," he said. "And set the barrier around the palace once you're done." With a flash of light that gave all present spots before their eyes, the two gods disappeared.  
  
The one remaining stared at the spot where they had been for a moment, then shrugged cheefully. "Can't win 'em all," he said.  
  
Kel shook her head and turned to the two yellow-faced people. "I'm a little confused," she said.  
  
"We'll explain," the one called Marcy assured her, tugging at her sleeve. "Come with us-   
your servant's waiting at the gates with your gear. This way."  
  
As the two lead her from the garden, Joren screamed again. "Mindelan!" he yelled   
desperately, running after them. "Mindelan, get back her! Help a fellow out!"  
  
He felt himself freeze again, balanced precariously with his arms stretched out and one foot off of the ground. Auron smiled at him, lifting his skirt a little as he came closer.  
  
"Whassamatter, Jori?"  
  
Joren stared in horror at the god's smooth face, at the huge sparkling eyes, at the faint blush to his soft- ::No!::  
  
"I need to preserve my masculinity!" he blurted out. Auron snorted.  
  
"Sweetheart, that girl that just left was more masculine than you." He considered. "'Sides, I don't really like manly men. Too hairy."  
  
Joren screamed again.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Stefan was indeed standing by the gate, along with Peachblossom and the gelding he- Stefan, that is, not Peachblossom- had ridden. He smiled as Kel approached him, balling something furry into a small wad. For a moment his eyes rested on her two companions, curious, then he shrugged.  
  
"Hello, miss Keladry," he said when she reached his side. "They showed ye out too, then?"  
  
"Hello, Stefan," Kel smiled. "What's that in your hand?"  
  
"In my- oh. This." Stefan glanced at it. "Some tall, strong fellow gave it to me, said I needed to keep it safe. Would've asked why, but he weren't th'kind've lad ye'd question on sight." He uncrumpled the object and added, "Looks a bit like a toupee, now I think of it."  
  
Kel blinked at him without comprehension, then turned to the two figures. Stefan sighed. Sometimes you just couldn't win.  
  
"There's something that I don't quite understand," Kel said conversationally to Marcy and Jared. "In legends, it's written that mortals take the passage between realms hard. Why don't I feel any effects?"  
  
Marcy shrugged. "It wouldn't have been very convenient for that blond one to be fainting while he was sentenced, would it? Lord Mithros instructed us to slow the effects- they should hit you within the next week or so. Just chalk it up to a bad bout of the flu."  
  
"If you can do that, does that make you a goddess?" Kel queried.  
  
Marcy shook her head, looking a trifle disgusted. "Hardly. Neither I nor Jared are even slightly divine- we just clean up after those who are." She peered up at the human girl. "Is that all?"  
  
"Yes. Thank you so much for your help." Kel smiled warmly at them both. "For explaining it to me. You've been a great help!"  
  
"Not a problem," Marcy replied cheerily.  
  
"Our pleasure," added Jared.  
  
They watched the mortals mount up and start back down the road to Corus in the west. Only when they were small in the distance did Marcy ask, "So, do you think she'll realize   
that we didn't actually explain anything?"  
  
He grinned. "Nah. She's human- humans never do." He turned to go, but Marcy stayed   
in place, frowning.  
  
"Hey, we need to go set the barrier, remember? What's wrong?"  
  
"Just thinking," she replied. "I feel like we've forgotten something..."  
  
There was a pause, then:  
  
"Oh, bright Mithros, the KING!" 


	5. The Conclusion

**A/N: Oh, you know I had to include something like this... This is the last chapter of THE HOLY SCROLL, and possibly the last bit of humour I'll write for a while. I seem to have fallen into the great trap that yawns like a grim chasm at the feet of many fanfic writers, which is to suddenly find themselves unamused and frankly irritated by ideas that before entertained them greatly. I'm probably not going to write anything more to do with this particular storyline-  
  
*There comes the sound of a universal cheer.*  
  
- because I am in fact completely bored with it, and I think I could do a hell of a lot better if I worked on other things. *Shrugs.* Oh, well. At least I made people laugh, and most of the time it wasn't at me.  
  
Oh, and this would probably be a good time to mention that I don't own THE HITCH-HIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY, the Blue Oracle, forty-two, moose, George Bush (oh, thank the gods for that), the Copper Islands, marshmallows, or Tamora Pierce's universe. I do, however, own Tamora Pierce, and am forcing her to incorporate all my ideas for slash into the upcoming Tortall and Emelan books. (Let's see... Sandry goes with Daja, definitely, and Raoul goes with Dom, or maybe Gary if we can manage to divorce him and Cythera, and Onua goes with Buri, and Kel remains single until she is magically transported into the modern world and meets me...) Well, not really, but that'd be nice.**  
  
  
The Conclusion  
  
.  
  
The man was blue. That was the only thing that Jon was entirely sure of at that moment. That, and he wasn't wearing very much, and was sitting on a pedestal, and had his eyes closed. Jon coughed and poked him in the foot.  
  
"Speak your question, mortal," the man said without opening his eyes.  
  
"Uh... what question?"  
  
"ANY question," it replied portentously. "For I am the Blue Oracle. I know all answers to all questions- in a word, everything."  
  
"Everything?" Jon was impressed.  
  
"Everything." The Oracle smiled smugly.  
  
"All right." Jon though for a moment, then asked, "Where are my marshmallows?"  
  
The Oracle opened one eye and stared at him. "That's IT?"  
  
Jon nodded.  
  
"But that's so stupid!" the Oracle protested. "Why, I could correctly answer any question you ask me! For example- ask me the answer of Life."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Just do it!"  
  
"What's the answer to Life?"  
  
The Oracle's open eye closed. He hummed tunelessly in the back of his throat for a minute, then replied, "Forty-two."  
  
"But how do you know it's right?" Jon asked, rather plaintively.  
  
"It's one of the Truths of Life, the Universe, and Everything," the Oracle replied tranquilly. "Even ask the President. It doubles in meaning for him, actually- it's the answer to Life and the number of brain cells he possesses." He opened one eye again. "Ask me another question, go on."  
  
"Where's my memory?"  
  
The eye closed; the humming started. "On a beach in the Copper Islands, with a moose."  
  
"Wow." Jon though for a minute. It hurt, so he stopped. "But is it TRUE?"  
  
"That hardly matters," came the reply. "I'm an Oracle- people expect what I say to be true. They never bother thinking about it."  
  
The King pondered this, long and hard. Luckily, pondering didn't hurt as much as thinking. Finally, sighing deeply, he turned and asked:  
  
"You're not going to tell me where my marshmallows are, are you?"  
  
"No."  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Somewhere in the Divine Realms, inside a sodden cardboard box, a tiny old man in a battered top hat and black coat laughed uproariously.  
  
"Monarchs," snorted the God of Fizzy Liquids as he wiped tears of mirth from his beady eyes. "They never learn!" 


End file.
